The Diary
by Yonkia
Summary: OC. Funnily enough, the diary didn't end up in Potter's hands. Someone picked it up before he did.
1. Chapter 1

The black cover of the rather empty journal stared back at her.

She wrote in it once, and she was promptly creeped out by what happened afterwards. It started writing back to her in a, if she didn't know any better, rather attractive script. (It was so refined and pretty...)

Being a muggle-born student, she didn't know if that was normal or not. She knew that journals never wrote back and they certainly don't _chat_ with the journalist. Therefore, she immediately closed the book and turned a blind eye to it, leaving her future self to do something with it later.

It took her nearly two weeks of dedicated and intentional evasion of the diary before her curiosity held her by the quill, and forced her to write _something_ , anything. She _should_ write something. It was an empty journal, for goodness's sake. (Granted, it soaked up and she was worried that she'd forget what she wrote there in the first place. Not a very good journal overall.)

She could pour her heart out, perhaps, over how much her _fellow_ Ravenclaws taunted her for her stupidity. Perhaps how much she thought Potter was cute; perhaps how much she found Charms and Transfiguration and flying on a broom rather exhilarating; perhaps writing something to make her feel superior when she really shouldn't, because it wasn't her place to say so, and it just wasn't a part of her to feel superior to others; perhaps...

Instead, her ink dripped, and dripped, and...

After a tentative pause of what could be no longer than a minute but felt just as long and even longer, her hands set to work.

 _Hello?_

She waited only a few seconds. Perhaps she wouldn't get another response like last time; maybe that time was a fluke. Maybe someone is pulling some huge prank on her, or...

The script flowed out in ink, growing and curling into something neat and elegant. Easy on the eyes, but stylish, neat, and a style that she may want to have imitated at least once in her life. _**Welcome back. It seems that I still do not know who you are. Who might this be?**_

Aside from staring with fascination over the handwriting, she was surprised that a _diary_ could remember. How does a diary remember who wrote on it? Magic, of course, most likely, but _what..._?

 _I find it strange that there exists diaries that can_ , _well_ — _write back. Would you be an actual person? Or are you some kind of_ —

She trailed off in her ink, unsure how to phrase such an item. Thankfully, the writing appeared just as quickly to save her from her thoughts.

 _ **You would not be the first one to believe so. I wager that I would not be the first one, either, but I would not put it aside that there are others.**_

 _So are you sentient?_

 _ **Depends on how you assume sentience is.**_

 _And how did you know it was me, again?_

 _ **My dear, your handwriting is fairly distinct.**_

There was a distinct air of... _amusement_ in the writing.

Was the diary _mocking_ her for her rather neat handwriting? For the record, she prided herself on her handwriting! That was pretty much the only thing she was _good_ at! She was about to pen such a thought, but the rather neat handwriting continued to write itself.

 _ **After all, I have yet to seen such a tidy and elegant script written in all these years.**_

All of a sudden, the room felt a little more hotter than it did a few seconds ago. Or was it her cheeks heating up again? Her surprise allowed her to keep writing instead of wasting valuable ink. (She should probably get new quills instead of a traditional quill and ink. Aren't there self-filling quills or some things like that on the market?)

 _Thank you, I suppose._

 _ **May I have the honor of knowing your name?**_

 _Lisabeth Carton. Do you have a name?_

 _ **Hello, Lisabeth Carton. Interesting name. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come across this diary?**_

 _So, you are aware that you are a diary? You must have_ some _semblance of sentience, at the very least. Um, I don't quite remember. I think in the unused girl's bathrooms. I was bored to say the least._

 _ **I find it rather fortunate that I spelled both the bindings and the ink to be rather formidable against water.**_

 _...How did you know it was in water?_

 _ **I just know.**_

As she wrote and wrote, she thought about this Tom Riddle entity. This Riddle 'spelled' the book and any ink touched to still function after having water dumped all over it. That would be impossible for some simple diary, unless it was actually a person's doing... Maybe it used to be an old student's book? Who knows. Maybe a trip to the library will have some solutions.

 _So are you some sort of person in a diary, then?_

 _ **To be exact, a memory.**_

 _Oh. How does that work?_

 _ **Are you, perhaps, a Ravenclaw?**_

Again, the room seemed to be warmer. Her cheeks were flaming red, probably. How did this... _memory_ even know? A good guess?

The deliberate evasion of the question didn't leave unnoticed, either. She left it as it is. Let this Tom Riddle answer as he pleases. (At least, she had the feeling that this Tom Riddle was a guy...)

 _Yes, I am. How did you know?_

 _ **Thought so. I have yet to come across someone as inquisitive as you are. Others often babble and write on until their wrists tire.**_

She couldn't help but chuckle at this Tom's jab at people. Humane enough for her. _So you are a person._

 _ **Again, a memory; but yes, if it makes you comfortable.**_

 _Interesting._ She had nothing else to write at that moment.

A slight pause. Should she confide into such a memory? It was meant to be a diary, after all. Maybe the whole memory thing was just something to make it more like a friend-in-a-pocket. Who knows.

In any case, it was already an hour past her usual bed time of ten or eleven, and she was getting fairly tired from it. Her morning classes would be a wreck if she didn't get enough rest for the night.

 _I will see you soon, I suppose, Riddle. It's very late, and I would like to attend Potions with an open mind._

 _ **A pleasure meeting you, miss Carton. Good night.**_

'Likewise,' she thought, not writing any more as she closed the book and retired to her bed.

Her roommates were long asleep while she was writing. It was an unspoken routine; they went to sleep before she did, as she had all sorts of things to catch up on like reading or writing even more than what was usually required for an essay. While some of her peers were mostly socializing all the time, she would read and study on the things that she wished to study.

She wouldn't call herself a Granger with how little she studies compared to that girl, but all the same, she felt that it was appropriate to compare herself to Granger in terms of habits. It was a good thing that some other Ravenclaws were of the similar thought, so she could easily blend in some circles without actually doing much.

The diary—Tom Riddle—came at a rather convenient time for her. She didn't have much outlets to let steam off, anyway. This was a great chance for her to finally let some things out like other people do when they complain to their friends. Her other friends didn't really pay much attention to her, so she found herself more often than not lonelier than some others. Keeping a diary was the last thing she ever thought of; naturally, she had no interest in keeping a diary with her.

It didn't bother her at first, but as she slid underneath her comfortable blankets, her thoughts drifted to how little socializing she gets at Hogwarts. A potentially new friend.

She fell asleep with a smile, thinking of the diary and its strange keeper with the name Tom Riddle.

* * *

 _.A/N._ Of course, I don't own Harry Potter.

As with mostly anything and everything I write, this was something I wanted to write out but didn't know how to go about it. A messy premise, a messy explanation as to how it may happen, and a messy story progression. Ya feel?

No promises for any progress in this any time soon as school is pretty much in session, but I suppose if I have some inspiration and motivation I'll see if I can make something more than half-decent out of this idea.

Thank you for your interest.

* * *

( ﾟДﾟ)


	2. Chapter 2

_Of course, I don't own H.P. c:_

 _Enjoy chapter 2! If you find any glaring errors, mistakes, potential plotholes, oopsies, yada yada, etc., shoot me some form of communication! Much appreciated._

 _Notes at the bottom._

* * *

Tom Riddle sat in his own white space, doing what he turned to as a habit and a necessary part of his routine. He would think as he virtually had all the time in the world, being stuck in a diary. _His_ _own_ diary.

Being stuck in a diary was, as expected, not exciting at all. He conjured his own wooden table for his very own book that he used to communicate with those who wrote in his journal from the outside. The chair was charmed for what he considered maximum comfort, and other than this room, his surroundings were bleak.

Sometimes he could read what he wrote back when he was seventeen and younger, when he had this old journal, in the journal that he wrote in to communicate with other people. It didn't bother him as much. It provided him with something, at least.

He didn't have much of a need for exciting scenery in the background, but he preferred things better than the same bleak white for the past however many years he was stuck here. He recreated his own dorm rooms back from his Hogwarts days in Slytherin, complete with a wax candle that burned of lilies, and an overabundance of … green. It was as homey as he would consider it to be, and so he kept it that way.

While he was stuck in here as a horcrux for however many years, he found entertainment in simulating spells and creating some new ones. It was unfortunate that he couldn't connect his mind to his original body; otherwise, he wouldn't have much of a need for connections with random preteen girls and strange old men to find out what exactly was going on in the outside world.

For all he knew, his original could be dead, the horcrux spell and all wouldn't actually work, and he wouldn't know. It didn't matter to him. He was his own person the moment his original split his soul and created him, a soul in a diary.

Aside from all that, Tom finally had some form of amusement and entertainment other than the idiotic ramblings of strangers and the entertainment of this own musings.

It came in the form of Lisabeth Carton.

That was the new girl's name. The new assumed owner of his horcrux (not that she knew what it was in the first place) until it swapped hands. Again.

Somehow, Ginevra Weasley—Ginny—dropped off the face of the planet, and was replaced by one Lisabeth Carton.

At first, he was miffed. Not because he didn't like this new girl. No. He was more frustrated at the wasted time. He went through all this trouble to get through miss Weasley's head and possess her for however short amount of time he could. The roosters were gone, and so far, only one living creature was affected by the basilisk. The cat. He didn't make much progress.

Ginny was gone, and there went all his hard work in establishing a presence. It left his plans for her half-done. Even if she were to come back to him, probable enough as she seemed to be _too_ attached to him, by then her mind would surely repair the loose ends and shattered barriers he went through to ensure he could possess her. He had to do it again by the time she found the journal. It would be easier than if he started from the very beginning altogether, but he didn't see himself getting back in touch with Ginny anytime soon. He couldn't just sit there and wait for her to come back for him to finish what he started.

There were some positive things even if it didn't exactly contribute to what he had planned. What he was thankful for, this time around, was Carton's intelligence. She was only eleven, and she, from the get go, began bombarding him with actual intelligent sentences that he could derive amusement from. He could actually respond in an intelligent fashion, as well as imposing his own opinion, which he rarely had the opportunity with the other girl. He could, for once, _think_ in his responses rather than provide meaningless consolations and, quite frankly, mindless responses.

(Perhaps that's why he still referred her as Carton rather than by her first name. Was he really that impressed with such a tiny little girl? Well. He'll just keep calling her Carton for now.)

Ginny spouted nonsense, and sure did Carton most of the time; but Ginny provided little, if any, intelligent topics on the table to discuss.

With Carton, she provided more information than Ginny's writing about her infatuation with Potter. They both equally shared mundane information and the like, but with Carton's, he could work with it. He greatly appreciated that aspect.

While it seemed like she was his savior from boredom, it was the fact that he had no contact with someone of a relatively intelligent caliber lately. Every single person who came into contact with him _had_ some form of intelligence; they just didn't harness it and brandish it as their main weapon of choice, which was silly as everything essential required intelligence lately. He didn't understand how buffoons who thought with their muscles worked.

Unsurprisingly, he began looking forward to the next time she picked up her quill and talked with him. It wasn't about the basilisk anymore; at least, he didn't think of it full time. It was getting to know this girl, and make some room for her in the future. She would, no doubt, be of some help. Better than nothing.

It was convenient; he had to work from the ground up with Carton to break through her natural (and admittedly, very strong, much stronger than Ginny's) shields anyway. He was slightly set back on valuable time, so the more she wrote, the more chances he had at cracking at it.

Still, he was a tiny bit miffed at starting all over again.

~.*.*.*.~

The day began as a mess in Potions and ended with a sigh of resignment in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Not that both professors of both classes are incompetent or anything. (Okay, maybe the Defense professor.) They just... didn't really teach much. Lisabeth found her fair share of incompetent teachers back in primary school, but it wasn't very big of a deal. They weren't that bad.

These two professors? Well. How did they even _get_ the darn job in the first place?

Professor Snape, of course, she held with some levels of respect; he was a renowned Potions master after all. It was such a shame that he barely taught anything and only ordered children around. It also seemed, from the rumor mill, that he hated Potter with a heated passion. No one knew why, or at least her blabbering friends didn't find out why exactly that was.

On the other hand, the Defense professor clearly had a problem. All Professor Lockhart really concerned the class with was _his_ intelligence and _his_ life stories. Uninteresting. Nothing very new. Provided for a great time to either sneak in naps, catch up on homework, or zone out. By this point, most of the school knew that he was a fraud.

To her relief, she found her other classes not as lacking as these aforementioned two classes. (Well. She couldn't say so for History of Magic. That one was just as bad as the other two classes.) She would have tore her hair out if most of the classes were run like that. Their coursework and homework left her with just enough time to finish them as adequately as possible without expending much effort while doing whatever she wanted to do later.

Of course, with her newfound friend in the form of a diary, she suddenly found herself without much time to do anything as it was mostly filled with conversing with Riddle.

 _T. M. Riddle?_ She didn't know if writing that would prompt a reaction. It was his initials, probably, but... might see if it has anything to do with him.

 _ **Yes? Why the initials?**_ She found herself smiling for little reason other than watching, fascinated with the script writing itself out in front of her.

 _That's what's written. It's a bit hard to see, but it's there on the first page. Tom M. Riddle, huh?_

 _ **Indeed. Anything about it?**_

The diary-memory shared the same name as the name scrawled neatly on the front page.

She already had an inkling of a suspicion, which reinforced her belief all the more when she found the name written on the page, but she had nothing to base it off of. Her parents always told her not to go jumping off cliffs to reach a conclusion. Don't be in a haste to find the pieces; be deliberate and smart about it.

In any case, it _had_ to be that this Tom Riddle actually existed as a student and this was his personal diary. Somehow he charmed or performed some magic, transforming a rather normal journal into a chatty diary with his memories. That's what Tom implied, anyway.

Regardless, she wrote on and on.

 _Were you a student in Hogwarts?_ It wouldn't hurt to confirm it.

 _ **Of course. However, I imagine many years have passed by since the last time I have attended Hogwarts.**_

 _Was this your diary, then?_

 _ **Yes. It was, in fact, mine. Obviously it is not in my literal hands anymore, but I stored my memories in here. Who could own a memory?**_

 _That's kind of cool. It's like you're immortalized in a book, isn't it?_ Lisabeth didn't bother addressing or answering his (probably, and most likely, rhetorical) question.

There was a slight pause before his script scrawled itself onto the page, written slower than the usual manner.

 _ **I suppose so.**_

~.*.*.*.~

Lunch, today, at the Great Hall.

Lisabeth, unexpectedly, found herself a potentially new friend to talk to, even if said person isn't as sane as the next person.

Lisabeth didn't see any of the usual acquaintances she always sat with and spoke to on occasion at the time, so she sat next to a stranger. It didn't really matter who she sat next to but she happened to sit next to someone who always spoke of Nargles and seemed to have her head in the clouds all the time. Said someone was actually fairly well-known in the Ravenclaw house—probably infamous by this point—but it seemed that the girl didn't care as much, and may have actually been oblivious to such a fact.

"What's your name, by the way?" The blonde-haired girl asked of her. Lisabeth responded appropriately, and the girl nodded to herself before resuming to staring at the enchanted ceiling. "Luna Lovegood."

"Well, hi, I guess." Lisabeth turned to her food—mostly vegetables at this point, because she wasn't feeling for meat lately—and kept her ears sharp for anything new to know. News and gossip always travel through the school quickly. (So far, nothing new. Nothing much _has_ been new ever since Mrs. Norris, the cat, was petrified, and rumors of Slytherin's Heir and that stuff circled around the student body.)

It was one of the most awkward lunches Lisabeth ever had, considering that Luna didn't speak much about things that made sense. She also seemed more interested in Lisabeth rather than her own food. Lisabeth masked her curiosity for the girl with forced indifference and ambivalence while trying to figure out exactly _what_ was so bad about Luna that the house shunned her. Lisabeth knew that most witches and wizards didn't take so lightly to those who were too different, but she didn't know to what extent they took it to.

Luna's bare feet spoke volumes to what extent they did take her oddities seriously.

"Do you walk around barefoot all the time?"

"Hmm. It's a funny thing. My shoes seem to disappear all the time. Maybe it's the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks?"

"...What?" Thrown for a loop with the strangely named assumed-to-be-creature, she had a more difficult time trying to process this information. Instead, she offered something else as a reply. "Do you want to maybe borrow some flats of mine?"

"What are flats?" Luna, chewing on some greens not completely in her mouth, leaving the rest laying over her chin, continued to stare upwards like she was consulting some higher power for an answer.

"Uh, type of shoes." Did they not have flats in the magical world? Maybe they were referred to as something different? Or did Luna just _not_ know what they were?

It didn't take long for Luna to answer. "You're very nice. My shoes somehow disappear overnight like all the other ones I brought in, though, so I don't think that's a good idea."

"Okay, then..." Ultimately, Lisabeth felt sympathetic for this girl. "Do you ever see them again? Your shoes, I mean."

"Sometimes. Not very often, though."

Maybe, if she asked nicely, Lisabeth would ask her mother for an extra pair of shoes for, what, Christmas? ( _But what about the shoe theft problem?_ A part of her asked.)

That seemed a little strange to ask for as a present, but whatever. She'd find an excuse later.

For now, Lisabeth humored Luna (as Luna did for Lisabeth) while lunch passed by.

~.*.*.*.~

Unlike others, like the Potter-Granger-Weasley trio, she didn't have a study group. At least, a dedicated study group. Ravenclaws (and everyone else, really, but they were all socialites it seemed) were capable of studying on their own—they were expected to, most of the time—and some of them much prefer the alone time. People like herself.

When free time came along (it wasn't called free time; it was actually "study session" but she didn't have much to study, to be honest; Professor Flitwick _did_ say that his office was always open if anyone had any questions or concerns, and she was planning to make full use of that if it came down to such a situation), it was a time to write in her little black diary. Or to Tom.

Either way, free time and study sessions outside of class were the perfect time to start writing and writing if she felt like it.

And lately, strangely enough, she was _definitely_ up for some journaling. Which, in of itself, was surprising. She didn't expect herself to be a diary girl type, but here she was, writing and writing until her wrists tire, the edge of her quill resharpened for the tenth time this week, and on the third and second-to-last bottle of ink that was to last until Christmas break. It wasn't even Christmas break yet. She would need the special quills if she were to keep this up.

Lisabeth couldn't help it. Writing and conversing with Tom allayed her anxieties about Hogwarts, considering that she was new to this magic business. After all, it's her first year into Hogwarts and the whole magic shenanigans. With the cat petrified and the students mostly on guard, some even going as far as to throw blatantly baseless accusations to start a feud in the hallway, her fears and anxieties about magic were not irrational. She was only eleven!

In a way, she wrote her fears away and kept herself at ease whenever she had Tom the diary around.

 _Do you have any interests?_

 _ **Of course I do. Much like any other people have interests.**_

 _Well, yes, but care to share? It's difficult to bring in a good topic to talk about without any shared interests._

 _ **Snakes are rather nice.**_

… _No._ She shuddered. She could only stand the cute and tiny snakes. Anything else wasn't as cute. _They're a little... Maybe birds?_

 _ **Avians don't interest me, though I will not deny their usefulness.**_

She was stumped. _Hmm... Quidditch? I don't think I'd be good at that, but it seems fun._

 _ **An interest in flying?**_

 _Yeah, we recently had our flying classes. It was interesting._

 _ **I could teach you how to fly without a broom.**_

 _Really?_

 _ **Someday, perhaps.**_

 _I would love to fly on my own! Can we even do that?_

 _ **I could do it.**_

 _Okay. I'll hold you up to that._

 _ **As you wish, miss Carton.**_

Tom answered in a consistent manner, mere seconds after her own reply, all in his (she hoped it truly was his own penmanship; she'd like to imitate it one day) unique scrawls and curls. They continued in this manner, writing after one another, answering and keeping the line of words pleasant and polite. It was almost a routine with how easily they could keep it up.

 _Any chance that I could see what you look like?_

… _I really want to know how you looked like. You_ are _a person, right?_

 _ **What brought this forward? In any case...**_

 _ **I was informed that I was quite the charmer, yes. And indeed, I have gone my way through a number of situations that were... sketchy, at best, with such a tool.**_

 _ **And yes, I**_ **was** ** _popular with the ladies. Annoying..._** Tom trailed off, uncommon to see in her days writing to Tom. It was easy to infer that his looks brought more trouble than it was worth, if he was saying anything in particular about it—and particular enough to trail off his sentences...

… _Oh._

'... _Oh._ How stupid was that, Lisabeth!? Couldn't you have written something more than just... _oh_?'

 _Um, well, okay._

 _ **Doubtful, are you?**_

 _It's difficult to believe when you can't see it. But I'll believe you._

 _ **Indeed. It's easy to apply that thinking to both the muggle and the magical world, don't you think? Muggles don't know, and they do not believe, that magic is possibly real. Wizards and witches do not understand with logic; they believe with their eyes and their own silly theories.**_

 _Yeah, I know what you mean._ She was thankful for the sudden change of topic. Harry Potter being the heir of Slytherin was one. Speaking of which...

 _Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?_

 _ **Of course.**_ Tom's reply came nearly instantaneously after her inquiry. **_Of course I do._**

 _Care to share?_

At once, Tom's writing flowed and flowed, and it didn't seem like it would stop. Lisabeth was sure that that was the most he wrote to her in one sitting.

 _ **Back in my day, the chambers were a legend; it didn't exist. I can assure you that it was real; it was something you could open and venture down into. In my fifth year, it was opened, and the monster attacked several students before eventually killing one.**_

 _ **I caught the one who opened the chamber, and he was expelled with his wand snapped. Instead of wanting the truth out, the headmaster, Professor Dippet, warned me to keep my mouth shut. The school gave me a rather nice trophy for my efforts. I'm sure it's on display somewhere.**_

 _ **The monster still lived on afterwards, as well as the one who opened it. They were not imprisoned, either.**_

 _What was the monster?_

 _ **I cannot say. I didn't see the monster; only the perpetrator. Why do you ask?**_

 _Because it's opened again, and I'd like to know what it is and who's opening it._

 _ **Don't worry about it. I will not let it harm you.**_

Lisabeth chuckled, not once believing Tom. _You're a diary, though. How would you do that? But thank you for the thought._

 _But you know who it was?_

 _ **Yes. I can give you the name, if you'd like. You're also welcome not to believe me. I am just a simple diary, after all.**_ She paused before penning her answer. Why wouldn't she believe Tom? She had no reason to disbelieve him. Not yet, at least.

She didn't say anything on that matter, and opted to ignore that.

 _I don't see why not._

 _ **Rubeus Hagrid.**_

Okay, scratch that. She needed to investigate that claim.

 _ **I can show you my memories of it. I can see you are doubtful.**_

 _I'll take you up on that offer soon, but not now._

She set the quill aside.

~.*.*.*.~

For the rest of the day, she avoided seeing and looking at Professor Hagrid. It was true that he had his wand snapped and he was known for loving creatures that were... uh... known for being monstrous in size and formidability. She didn't have his classes, thank goodness, but it was awkward talking about how nice the professor was around her friends when she was _just_ told that Hagrid was the one who opened the chambers.

But did that really mean that Hagrid opened the chambers?

' _Remember, Lisabeth, he_ supposedly _opened it. Tom said so! I'll get Tom to show me what he saw later, I guess._ '

She remained in the library, trying to find out if there was anything that would help her investigate that claim. There probably weren't any, but she didn't care. It was an excuse to look at new books in the library, after all.

She stood up to return some books back on the shelf before grabbing some more from the other aisles. The diary was left on the table, unattended, while she, at her own leisurely pace, picked up and replaced books from shelves everywhere. Madam Pince was a little peeved at the slight disturbance as she always was, but it didn't really matter in the end.

~.*.*.*.~

Well, she didn't actually get very far in getting anything new.

Nothing about the chamber of secrets; if there were, she'd be surprised. People were checking out books left and right; there weren't any copies of _Hogwarts: A History_ left in the library. There certainly weren't any books left about Salazar Slytherin's past, nor not much of any of the other books that related in any way to Slytherin. This included books on the other three founders and, of course, of Hogwarts the building.

So... in the end, again, she found nothing of worth.

Lisabeth barely kept watch of the time. By the time she realized it, it was... well, probably nearing her bed time. She retired to her room in the tower as it was nearing dark (not that anyone could see the sky from the inside of the castle other than the Hall), but one thing stood out to her. Something strange.

Something that her mind was screaming at her that she was missing something.

Her bag seemed lighter than usual. It didn't seem as bulky as it was before, and it didn't seem as heavy as it did in the afternoon. She would have bought the lightweight no-restrictions-on-space bag that the stores in Diagon Alley sold, but the Hogwarts' trust fund for struggling families only gave so much. She didn't know any charms to charm the bag herself.

The only charms and functions the bag came with was a cheaper version of the endless bottom type of a bag. (Frankly, she'd rather have the entire effect of a bottomless bag.) Therefore, she had to lug around the full weight of the bag, textbooks and everything. (It was a good call to leave the fraud's "textbooks" back at her dorm room.)

As a result, she would immediately know if there was something that wasn't supposed to be there, or a profound lack of something that was supposed to be there, in her bag. It was logical, right? If it wasn't there, it would be felt, as is vice versa. The only exceptions being the extremely lightweight items like quills and parchment, but even stacks of parchment were surprisingly heavy.

Lisabeth dreaded the worst. If it was anything else that was gone, she'd be fine, she could replace it, but... what if...?

She set her bag on the nightstand next to her bed, only barely acknowledging that she wasn't alone in her room. She began rummaging through her bag, desperately hoping that it was just her paranoia being stupid and throwing her off track, but...

Textbook. Parchment set aside for Potions, with a preliminary paragraph prewritten. Charms assignment. Transfiguration theory. Useless fraud's useless reading assignments on how well he fared against a terrifying banshee in the middle of nowhere of France. Quill. Another quill. Half-filled bottles of ink. Spare ingredients for some later potions rendezvous.

Lisabeth's heart raced, pounding against her chest, her throat constricting almost to the point where she could hardly breathe.

Everything was out of the rather ordinarily large bag, except for one thing.

The diary was gone.

(Her paranoia was correct, yet again.)

 _Did I not bring it back with me?_

Her friend-quaintance, Padma Patil, a year her elder as well as her roommate, took note of her worries. If it wasn't already obvious from Lisabeth's flailing around of her possessions, then it _definitely_ was obvious that Lisabeth was running around her side of the room looking for something. Desperately. It was even more strange when it seemed as if Lisabeth _knew_ that she wouldn't find anything there. "What's wrong, Lisabeth?"

 _I can't just say that I lost my diary—journal, thing. Whatever. The sound of that..._

She inhaled, exhaled, _relax, relax_. "Nothing, nothing. Just thinking. Thinking too hard." Even distracted, she cringed at herself for how stupid that was...

"O-kay, alright. Are you sure? Looking for something?" Padma poked in, clearly not buying that sorry excuse of _thinking_ too hard.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" Half-occupied flipping her books everywhere and her bags upside down _so desperately_ for the darn diary, even though she _knew_ flipping everything upside down didn't help matters, she didn't even bother answering the other half of Padma's question. Going by what Lisabeth was currently occupied doing, she already knew. Padma sighed, feeling awkward by standing there doing nothing.

Eventually, Lisabeth gave up. She already gave up the moment she emptied her bag, anyway. The diary was not there anymore.

"I just lost something and I don't know where it is," Lisabeth explained to her nonplussed audience consisting of only Padma.

"Well, that happens when you lose something," Padma droned, giving her a look. Lisabeth, despite herself, rolled her eyes.

"No, duh, of course..." Lisabeth sighed, visibly deflating, putting everything back to the way it was supposed to be, distracting herself from the thought of losing something that she just so recently found solace in.

"I'm sure you'll find it later. Or sooner."

Lisabeth waved Padma's comment aside in favor of finishing whatever assignments she had left.

Doing what she did best, Lisabeth spent the next hour drowning herself in her essay for Potions about the uses and properties of asphodel as a potion ingredient, and another hour reading her textbooks, and yet another hour...

She finally retired for the night, curled up in her blankets, pulling a sour face at herself for losing the diary _somehow_.

Did she _really_ put the journal into her bag? The only way that was possible for her to lose it was to actually _not_ put it in her bag in the first place.

But she clearly remembered tucking away the journal... but did she really?

Her memory was foggy that late evening, so it was possible that she forgot completely, which was uncharacteristic of her. Normally, she would remember things like that. She could recall cooking recipes for her mother on the bat if she wanted to. She could recall the most obscure fact about that one goblin war that no one ever really cared about only because it was so interesting to her.

But the diary? No, it _clearly_ wasn't interesting enough for her to remember bringing it back with her.

She couldn't even trust her own memory!

Sighing, more than just frustrated with herself, resigning to leaving it up to herself in the morning to figure things out later, she threw herself under the comfort of blankets and welcomed sleep.

* * *

 _.A/N._ Well, at least it's winter break for me at the moment...

Anyway, I had a lot of options to go with this, but I, in my _infinite_ amount of creativity, went with the one path that I was unsure how to proceed with. It doesn't help that I was kinda stuck trying to write this out, so things may be iffy and all that stuff. Hey, least I'm trying!

Yes, she's going to get the diary back. Somehow. One way or another. That's all I'm going to say, but I'm sure it's not as mysterious as I'm making it out to be.

Thank you for reading!

* * *

('◇')ゞ


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